


The Lord of Lorien

by Evandar



Series: The Kings of the North [7]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Thranduil, Elves are Confusing, Elvish Magic, Established Relationship, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But the strangest thing is: he struggles to think past the assumption that Thranduil is in love with him. </i>
</p><p>Lord Celeborn leads a supply train from the south; Thranduil practises magic; Bard learns about the price that Elves must pay for loving mortals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lord of Lorien

It’s been snowing for days. The ice on the lake is thick enough to walk on in places, though they've carved holes in it for fishing and kept the River Running flowing. The Mountain is near impassable, with only a small track left leading to the main doors, and that has to be cleared as often as the river ice. 

Dale, the world, has gone silent. Every sound is swallowed up by the snow. There are more people: those who had stayed in the eaves of Mirkwood after the dragon fell had made their way north to Dale for safety and better shelter. Thranduil and his Elves have remained with them, guarding them with bows and sharp eyes, and eating mercifully little of the supplies. 

The Elves have a waybread that they called 'lembas'. Bard finds it bland, but a mouthful of it is meal enough for a day. Luckily, a mouthful a day is all of it he can stand.

It’s no substitute for a hearty meal, not in this weather, but the Elves seem almost immune to the cold and therefore don't seem to mind. His people grumbled a little at the start, but they all fell silent when it became known that until supplies from the south arrive, lembas is all they have. 

Days dawn bleak and eerie, with the sun barely strong enough to break the mist and cloud. Bard rises to work. With little now to quarrel over, he works alongside his people to make the town as safe and habitable as possible. They shore up walls as best they can; build new ones from crumbled stone. They will have to wait until spring for more stone to arrive from the Mountain, but for now they have the aid of those Dwarves willing to brave the cold, and the Elves who are hardier than they appear. 

He sees Thranduil most evenings. They share stolen moments in the Elvenking's tent; goblets of wine from a decreasing store and kisses that warm Bard's blood better than any fire. 

He hasn't told the children yet. He knows Tilda suspects - she's suggested enough, certainly, to let him know that she’s been eavesdropping – but he won't say for sure until he's certain something might come of it. Thranduil is still too hard to read, and he's less than forthcoming. 

He's part way through repairing the east wall of the old town hall when an Elf appears. Legolas, Thranduil's son, who never seems to be able to look him in the eye (Bard wonders if that means Thranduil has told him what - if anything - is happening between them, or if Legolas - like Tilda - has been listening when he shouldn't), appears from out of the snow so suddenly that Bard almost drops his end of the stone. 

Legolas helps him catch the weight one-handed. "My father requires your presence, King Bard," he says, helping guide the stone into place. 

The tips of his ears are red. It's not the cold; he's blushing, and Bard knows for a fact that Legolas knows something. 

"Now?" he asks. 

"Aye. The convoy from the south has been sighted. They came past the ruins of Esgaroth this morning."

Bard wipes the dust from his gloves onto his coat. He's not dressed for kingly business this morning, but in truth he never is. Rich clothes are low on his list of priorities. 

"Very well," he says. "I will go to him."

The red in Legolas' ears deepens, and he frowns at a place somewhere over Bard's right shoulder. 

"My father is very fond of you," he says. 

"And I of him," Bard replies. 

It's true. He is fond of Thranduil. He's often confused by him, and frustrated, but even when the Elvenking is driving him up the wall, he cannot bring himself to be truly angry. He cares too much; cares in a way that he hadn't though he would again after his wife died. 

Legolas glances at him ever so briefly before his gaze skates away to the horizon once more. "I will take you to him," he says. 

The walk is mercifully brief. Thranduil is standing on what remains of the southern rampart, looking out at the mist and snow. There is a swathe of shadow in the distance to the right, and Bard knows that it is Mirkwood. He wonders if Thranduil misses his woodland halls, but doesn't have the courage to ask. The last thing he wants is for Thranduil to think he doesn't want him there. 

"You called for me," he says by way of greeting. His footsteps are a lot heavier than any Elf's and Thranduil no doubt heard him coming a mile off. 

Thranduil tears his gaze away from the horizon, and offers him a slight smile. The warmth of the expression brings heat to Bard's cheeks, but as he's already flushed with cold and exertion, there's always the hope that Thranduil won't notice. 

"Legolas said something about a supply train," he says. 

"Yes," Thranduil replies, looking away once more. Bard moves to stand closer to him, and rests his hands on the rampart next to Thranduil's own - red from cold and calloused from work, there couldn't be a greater contrast between their hands; Thranduil's are almost as pale as the snow and too long to be human. 

Bard rather likes his hands. It takes effort to look away from them and out towards the distance. He can't see what Thranduil is looking at - if Thranduil is looking at anything. 

"Tell me about them," he says," the Elves who are coming."

"They come from Loth Lorien," Thranduil says. "The Golden Wood far to the south, past Dol Guldur. They are Silvan and Sindar, for the most part, much like my own people."

For such a fair explanation, Bard understands very little. It's not an unusual feeling, though one he has come to dislike. Thranduil makes him feel very young - childlike - and while he knows that Elves are eternal, and that Thranduil is possibly quite ancient, being so out of his depth is very uncomfortable. 

He has no idea what Silvan and Sindar are. Elves, he presumes, but what difference there is between them is beyond him. 

He has no idea which of them _Thranduil_ is. 

He'd like to know. He's just afraid of sounding like an idiot when he asks. 

"I've heard stories of a witch in those woods," he says eventually, when it becomes clear that Thranduil will say nothing more while unprompted. 

"Lady Galadriel," Thranduil says. The tone of his voice is a fascinating study in neutrality. Usually, Thranduil's voice is his tell - his face rarely reveals anything of what he feels, but when he speaks it becomes more obvious. To hear him speak so blankly is more intimidating than the disdain that Bard hears every time their conversations turn to Dwarves (rarely) or the old Master (more frequently). 

"She is one of the Noldor," Thranduil says, explaining nothing, "and a powerful sorceress. We shared a teacher in such matters, a long time ago. But she is aided in her arts and I am not."

"You use magic?" Bard asks. 

"Daily," Thranduil replies, but beyond a twitch of his fingers, does not elaborate further. "She is wed to my uncle, Lord Celeborn. It is he who is leading the supply train."

"You aren't close," Bard says. The lack of emotion in Thranduil's voice is finally clue enough of _something_. 

"No," Thranduil says. "There was a disagreement between Lord Celeborn and my father and their relationship never recovered. I haven't seen my uncle since the Last Alliance."

"You're close enough to ask for his aid," Bard says. 

"Desperate," Thranduil corrects. "Nothing but desperation could have me contact him like this." He glances at Bard, and the look in his eyes is utterly unreadable. "He will not approve of you."

It's the closest Thranduil has come to publicly admitting their...whatever it is that lies between them. It makes Bard's chest flood with warmth at the same time as it makes his stomach curdle. 

"You told him?"

"I would tell my son first," Thranduil says, confirming Bard's suspicions about Legolas' sneaking. "But he will know. He has only a fraction of his Lady's power, but his eyes are sharp and his mind keen." 

"I thank you for the warning," Bard says. "Is there anything... Do you wish for our meetings to cease while your kin are with us?"

Thranduil looks at him again. His eyes are wide, piercingly blue in his snow-pale face. He looks surprised, but more than that, he looks tired. Bard hadn't noticed that before. 

"I wish for our meetings, as you call them, to continue as they are." Tired as he looks, there is a sudden fire within him, and Bard's stomach tightens in response. "What Lord Celeborn does or does not approve of concerns me little provided he gives us the aid we require."

...

"Your father has the amazing ability," he says to Legolas, "to speak in plain Westron and yet be completely incomprehensible."

Legolas laughs. "There are those who would say the same is true of all Elves," he replies. "What did he speak of that has so confused you, may I ask?"

Little, after his declaration that nothing between them would change. Thranduil had run his fingers over the back of Bard's hand and informed him that he might wish to prepare himself to meet the Elven Lord sent to relieve them, which Bard had taken to mean that while Thranduil might not mind him yet dressing as a bargeman, his uncle likely _would_. 

Legolas, apparently his escort for the day, had joined him as he walked down the stairs to the street below, his ears flushed enough to show that he'd been waiting within Elvish earshot. 

"He spoke of Sindar," Bard says after a while. "I hadn't known there were different types of Elves."

Legolas hums in reply, which is, of course, a less than useful response. But Bard has learned nothing from Thranduil if not patience, and Legolas isn't quite as vague as his father is capable of being. 

"The Sindarin Elves are those who began their journey west to the sea, long ago at the beginning of the world," Legolas says, "but who lingered along the way. Ada - my father - is one of them, as am I, though my nature is more Silvan. They are amongst those Elves who took greater delight in the forests and stars than in the promises of the Valar."

"And Noldor?" Bard asks. 

A brief frown flits over Legolas' face. "They are those who sailed and then returned in exile," he says. "They are said to be wiser, stronger than we who have not seen those shores. Greater yet are the Vanyar, who sailed and remain in bliss."

Remaining in bliss would have been to remain in ignorance, Bard thinks. But he has his answer just in time for Legolas to leave him. His tent is in view and it is time to prepare. 

"Bard," Legolas says before he can leave. "King Bard. My father...there is much he does not say."

"I know," Bard replies, and can't quite hold back his sigh. "I live in hope that one day he will simply _tell_ me."

"And if he does not?"

Bard becomes suddenly aware that it may be a good thing that Legolas avoids looking at him so often. The Elf Prince's eyes are a brighter, more piercing blue than his father's, and the longer Bard holds his gaze, the more their colour seems to shift and change. It's unnerving to say the least. 

"Then I will continue to wait for as long as I am able," he says, and continues on into his tent before Legolas can delay him further. 

His children are inside, huddled under blankets. Bain whittling clumsily at a piece of wood, and Sigrid and Tilda with darning in their laps. 

"Da!"

He finds himself held tight by their arms. Tilda and Bain seem more excited than usual about something, but there's a hint of worry in Sigrid's eyes, and her brows are drawn down into a frown. It can only mean one thing. 

Elves. Again. 

Fortunately, he neither has to wait not ask for an explanation. "Da, you got a present!" Tilda says. "Elves brought it."

And Thranduil had so carefully made sure that he was distracted when it was delivered, making sure that he couldn't refuse it. Tricky Elf. 

"Did they now?" he asks. "And where _is_ this present?"

It's on his bed, bound in grey silk and pale twine. It's soft, and he's fairly sure he knows what it is even before he pulls it open to reveal dark velvet. 

Thranduil has sent him clothes. The clothes of a King, no less, so that he might actually look the part he struggles daily to play. 

"Da?" Sigrid's voice is soft, but the question is there. 

"A supply train is approaching from the south. Elves from the Golden Wood - King Thranduil's kinsmen - are arriving today with food and supplies. Their Lord is with them."

He unfolds the velvet to discover it is a tunic. Midnight black and embroidered with silver at the high collar; there are new hose to wear under it, and a shirt in silver-grey. There's a fur-lined cloak as well, and sturdy boots that look surprisingly practical. 

Beneath these, at the bottom of the parcel, are more boots and more cloaks; smaller, though, and lighter in colour. 

Bard's mouth goes dry. His children will have warm things to wear this winter. 

For that, he forgives Thranduil for the imposition in an instant, and swears to thank him properly when they next have privacy. 

...

Watching the Elves arrive in Dale is like falling into dreamland. Perhaps it is because he is used to the Elves of Mirkwood, or perhaps it is because the Elves of the Golden Wood are different somehow, but they seem more fantastical to his eyes. They look like they've caught stars in their hair and their eyes, but it is not the glow that shines from their skin that makes them seem strange (he sees that every day). It is something he cannot name. 

The closest he can come is magic. 

Their Lord, clad in white and riding a white horse, looks like a star in Elven form. 

Though not as fair as Thranduil, he shares the same silver hair and dark brows, and there is a golden circlet on his head, decorated with silver leaves and diamond flowers. 

Bard would much rather face Smaug once more than remain by Thranduil's side any longer, but he wills himself not to move as the Lord of the Golden Wood dismounts. He's rewarded for his efforts by the sight of one of the most awkward embraces in all of Middle Earth, in which Thranduil and Lord Celeborn try desperately not to touch each other for too long. 

Their greetings are, of course, in Elvish, and therefore completely over his head, but Thranduil soon turns to him (far sooner than Bard would like).

"King Bard," he says. "May I introduce my kinsman, Lord Celeborn of Lorien."

Bard wants to run, feels like he should probably bow, but manages a stately nod that doesn't dislodge the circlet resting on his own brow. (Thranduil, it seems, had a spare available.) The nod is returned.

"We are greatly in your debt, Lord Celeborn," he says. 

Cart after cart of produce - apples and grains; bottles of wine, beer, and a pale-gold liquid that shimmers oddly; dried herbs and meats, and flat parcels wrapped in leaves - comes rattling through the gate, driven by Elves clad in red and gold. Those carts are possibly the loveliest sight Bard has ever seen. They carry enough food to provide for three kingdoms, and more besides. 

"Ever shall Lorien answer, when Mirkwood calls for aid," Lord Celeborn says. His Westron sounds strange, as if it's something he speaks rarely. 

Thranduil bows his head. "We thank you," he says. 

...

"Tell me," Lord Celeborn says later, when they are sat together in Thranduil's tent, a bottle of wine airing between them and hearty bowls of thick stew - the first proper meal either he or Thranduil has had in weeks - scraped clean. "Why attempt to feed three kingdoms, Thranduil? Mirkwood's wealth is great, but your resources are almost spent. Had we not come, you would have been eating spiders."

"Their flavour is better than their manner," Thranduil replies. He smiles viciously. "A Silvan delicacy."

Bard tries not to shudder too obviously. 

"Peace," Thranduil says after a moment’s silence. "And hope of future prosperity. Mirkwood relies on the Men of this region, as do the Dwarves, and the Men rely on both of us."

"You would starve your people for Dwarves?"

"Better that than go to war again, so soon after the last. Gundabad and Dol Guldur both were emptied, Lord Celeborn, and not all their forces were destroyed. There is evil-"

"Greater than you know," Lord Celeborn interrupts. 

For a brief moment, Thranduil looks irritated. Or, rather, his fingers twitch, which may be a sign of it. His face is blank as always. 

"I know well the darkness on our borders," he says. 

"But its true nature?" Lord Celeborn asks. "That I doubt."

"Tell me."

Bard is watching their interactions closely, which is why he notices the brief glance Lord Celeborn gives him, as if to ask why he is there. He doesn't voice the question, though, and Bard doesn't move from his seat as he - and Thranduil , no doubt - feign ignorance. 

"When the North was arming itself for war, Mithrandir called my lady to Dol Guldur," Lord Celeborn says. 

"He spoke not of this to us," Thranduil murmurs. 

"It is why he was not with Thorin Oakenshield as his company passed through your realm," Lord Celeborn replies. "He had travelled South in search of rumours of dark magic."

"The Necromancer," Bard says. "The Wizard met him?"

Lord Celeborn inclines his head. "We were deceived, Thranduil. It was Sauron in Dol Guldur; Sauron who tainted the woods and wildlife. He has been gathering strength in that fortress for an Age.

"My lady, the White Council with her, cast him out of that fell place. He fled south, past Lorien, leaving is shivering in his wake, and has settled once more behind his former borders. There is a shadow in Mordor once more."

Sauron... Bard has heard stories of darkness and rings of power; has heard Thranduil mention the Last Alliance (though only in passing). He had thought that shadow gone. Apparently, so had everyone else. 

Thranduil's fingers are white as bone against the table top. His lips are pressed into a line, stark white in his bloodless face. His eyes seem darker than ever; darker than the depths of the lake, and Bard realises that he has never before seen Thranduil so angry. 

Annoyed, yes; darkly amused, certainly; furious, never. 

"Your defences are stretched thin, Thranduil," Lord Celeborn says. 

What he says next is in Elvish, and Bard is utterly lost by it. Instead, he watches Thranduil, searching for any sign of a reaction so that he might guess. He senses that Thranduil doesn't like it, but beyond that...

"My power is my own," Thranduil says suddenly, thankfully in Westron, but in a tone as cold as ice. "Well do I know its limits."

"And yet you stretch it so far. From your Western borders to the lake, and north all the way to the Mountain itself?"

"I cannot leave my allies undefended," Thranduil replies. "I looked within my own borders for too long, concerning myself with little of the world beyond, and if what you have said is true: that isolation has allowed evil to grow unchecked."

Bard clears his throat. Both Elves look to him, and he shifts under the weight of their combined gaze. 

"What defences?" he asks. 

He had thought the remnants of Thranduil's army, those who chose to linger in Dale instead of returning to Mirkwood, we're all the defences the Elvenking had supplied, but from what little of their conversation he had understood, it sounds to him like Lord Celeborn thinks that Thranduil is using magic. 

Magic which Thranduil has told him that he practices daily, but that Bard has never seen, and which Lord Celeborn has noticed within a day. 

Thranduil reaches for the wine bottle. Apparently it has aired long enough, for he pours a goblet of it for each of them. "I moved the edges of my kingdom's defences to surround the camp here," he says. 

Bard frowns at him for the non-answer. He doesn't know what magic looks like. He - unlike some people - has led a quiet, normal life until the last few months. 

But it has been a quiet, normal life lived in the borders of Mirkwood. He has hear stories of the forest; of Men who ventured in and never came out, or who returned mad after days of wandering. He has felt, in his own journeys to the forest's edge in search of barrels, the swooping disorientation and sense of unreality that lingers under its heavy boughs. 

"The mists," he says. "They come from you?"

He catches the faintest hint of a smile - the first he's seen since their meeting on the ramparts that morning. Thranduil, it seems, is rather proud of him. 

 

"Indeed."

...

The mist seems different now that he knows it is more than winter causing it. Before, to his eyes, it was an annoyance at best and oppressive at worst. Now he looks upon it and sees a comforting blanket, like those he used to wrap around his children when they were small. 

It's small wonder, though, that Thranduil is tired. And the question of how long he can keep them safe this way weighs heavily on Bard's mind. He doesn't want Thranduil to suffer on his behalf. 

He doesn't want Thranduil to suffer at all if he can help it. 

The city is silent beneath him. Only those on watch - Men and Elves both - are awake, and Bard stands on the ramparts with his head full of wine. The Lord of Lorien has brought food and contentment to his people, but something - a suspicion of something he cannot name - is preventing Bard from feeling that same peacefulness. 

He wishes he could speak to Thranduil alone, but the Elvenking is still with his kinsman, and he is exhausted besides. Legolas, he thinks, would do instead. He surely knows _something_ of his father's powers (and his words to Bard that morning...something concerns him) and he is more likely to speak plainly. But the Elf Prince is absent, and Bard stands alone with his thoughts. 

He wonders what would happen should an enemy try to penetrate the mists surrounding them. What would happen to them, and what - if anything - that attack would do to Thranduil. 

"Does something trouble you, King Bard?"

He hadn't noticed the Elf approach, but when he turns the Lord of Lorien is by his side, shimmering in the night. 

He is taller than Thranduil, and instead of blue, his eyes are inhumanly dark. He's more untouchable, in a way; Thranduil is not the easiest of people, but having a conversation with Lord Celeborn is like talking to the moon. 

"I know nothing of Elvish magic," he says. "Is there a price for these defences Thranduil holds?" 

"His energy," Lord Celeborn replies. "He will sleep more than an Elf normally would. You speak as if you are concerned about him."

"The Elvenking is my friend," Bard tells him. He once told Thorin Oakenshield the same, and to a similar lack of appreciation. 

"So you say," Lord Celeborn says, and the wind coming down off the mountain has greater warmth in it. 

Bard sighs. He is tired of this. Tired of Elves and politics. He wishes more than anything that Dwarves had never returned to the mountain, but at the same time he cannot regret it. He cannot regret Thranduil, even if he thinks that the rest of what has come of these changes can burn in dragonfire. 

"You doubt me?" 

"I doubt that you know the cost of your friendship," Lord Celeborn says, making it clear as he does so that he knows that something more than friendship is at stake. "You know little of Elves, it seems."

"I can learn," Bard snaps. "What price are you talking about?"

"For love of you, Thranduil risks fading," is the cold reply.

A chill slithers down Bard's spine and ice settles in his stomach. He listens in sickened silence to the price an Elf must pay for loving a mortal - spelled out for him in more detail than he'd thought an Elf capable of providing - and Legolas' words from that morning make far more sense than they had at the time. 

But the strangest thing is: he struggles to think past the assumption that Thranduil is in love with him. 

Thranduil has never claimed as such, and while Bard doubts he is the type to risk their alliance on a brief fling, he hadn't realised he was anything so serious. Certainly not serious enough for Thranduil to risk his health over. 

"Excuse me," he says. 

The steps are icy under his feet, and the wine in his blood isn't helping his balance, but he makes it down from the ramparts unscathed. Then he follows the streets, weaving to avoid patches of rubble and ice, back along his earlier path from the Elvenking's tent. 

There is no light behind the canvas, but he feels little guilt upon entering - especially since Thranduil's guards stand by and let him do it. 

He picks his way carefully between articles of furniture towards where a familiar, shimmering glow tells him that Thranduil is in bed. The light illuminates his features perfectly, and as he approaches, Bard begins to notice things he had not expected. 

Thranduil's eyes are open as if he is awake, though his stillness and the steady rise and fall of his chest contradict it. One of those eyes, though, is white instead of blue; milky blind and set into a ruined cheek that - while healed - has been burnt down to the bone, with sinews and muscles fully on show. It is an eerie thing, and terrible to behold, and Bard sinks to his knees next to the bed. 

How it happened, what accident or battle it had been, was clearly long ago, but part of Thranduil's daily magics must be to hide it utterly - from sight and touch, for Bard had certainly never felt anything like that injury, not even when he and Thranduil have been at their most intimate. He touches it now, instead; brushes his fingers gently over dips and hollows. Beneath him, Thranduil stirs and sighs. 

"Sorry for waking you," Bard says. 

His only response is a murmur in Elvish, something he doesn't understand, but the tug on his sleeve from a long-fingered hand makes the meaning clear enough. He pulls off his boots before climbing into bed next to the Elvenking - they've never shared a bed before - and settles himself by his side. 

There will be repercussions for this in the morning, he knows, but for the moment, Thranduil is a peaceful warmth against his side. He shifts, wraps an arm around him, and presses his nose into silver hair. 

The morning can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of things are included here that Bard isn't necessarily privy to, so this is to clarify.
> 
> 1\. In the books, Celeborn is a Sindarin Elf and a kinsman to Elu Thingol, King of Doriath. Oropher - Thranduil's father - was also one of Thingol's kin, but we're never told how closely they're related. I chose to make Celeborn and Oropher brothers for the purpose of this fic.
> 
> 2\. Lembas was another thing from Doriath, and it was made by Queen Melian. In LotR, the lembas is made by Galadriel and her handmaidens. It's creation, we can suppose, is the duty of female Elves. In lieu of having a Queen to perform this duty, Thranduil relies on some unnamed background lady-Elves - probably the wives/daughters of those Sindarin Elves who followed Oropher to Mirkwood after the fall of Doriath.
> 
> 3\. Silvan Elves eating spiders (and other edible insects) is a headcanon of mine. It's also mentioned in the books that - contrary to Peter Jackson's racist dick portrayal - Oropher, followed by Thranduil, ruled the Silvan Elves by adapting fully to their culture. Thranduil is mentioned as being the greatest king they ever had; Legolas, in LotR, describes himself as a 'Wood Elf' (read: Silvan), implying he's been brought up immersed in that culture. (It's entirely possible that his mother was Silvan. We don't know.)
> 
> 4\. Thranduil using magic is another headcanon of mine, mostly based on the similarities between the descriptions of Doriath's defences in _The Silmarillion_ and Mirkwood. It's mentioned in _The Silmarillion_ that Queen Melian the Maia taught Galadriel some magic. Why not do the same for a young kinsman of her husband?


End file.
